


never enough

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealous Hannibal, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hannibal, Therapy Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: An ex-lover of Bedelia shows up uninvited, interrupting their session.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	never enough

The sudden sound is so out of place it takes Hannibal a moment to distinguish its origins.

A doorbell.

The melody is muffled by the distance to the hallway and somehow different that the usual sharp ring, but then again, he always finds himself on the other side of the door when the bell sounds.

He notes the unexpected interference in the back of his mind and continues to talk, his string of thoughts otherwise unbroken. It is not his house, after all.

Bedelia stares at him as he proceeds with details of his recent art purchases, her eyes betraying no concern, even though she must have heard the bell as well. This is the first time their weekly hour has been interrupted in any way and Hannibal is certain there is no other patient arriving before the assigned hour. The bell goes off again and this time a faintest twitch of bother passes over Bedelia’s lips. Yet, she makes no attempt to break off his speech and answer the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” Hannibal pauses his narrative to address the troublesome ring.

“No,” Bedelia replies simply, her face once again unmoved, “Please continue.”

Smiling, Hannibal resumes his story, but the uninvited guest remains undiscouraged; the bell rings for the third time, the sound unnecessary long as the person purposely holds the button down. How rude.

This time the displeasure is clearly visible on Bedelia’s face, but she is still reluctant to leave her chair. Whether it is because she does not want to disrupt the session, care for her patient always a priority, or does not want to disrupt _him_ is unclear. In his hopeful heart, Hannibal opts for the latter.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she finally makes up her mind and stands up, “I will be back shortly.”

“Of course, please, take your time,” he reassures her at once, his head turning to watch her walk away, silently admiring her petite figure, her locks swooshing against the silk on her blouse, the firmer than usual click of her heals further indicating her irritation.

She disappears behind the door, the sound of steps growing fainter, and Hannibal’s gaze returns to its previous spot, focusing on the now empty chair. The setting sun casts its last charm, elongating the shadows in the room as if luring out hidden secrets. This is the time when the light reflects against Bedelia’s hair, making it gleam in all its enticing allure. Hannibal frowns suddenly disheartened by the loss of his favourite sight.

The distant clink of a door being unlocked pulls his mind away from his contemplation. The sound that comes next makes Hannibal sit up straighter in his chair: a man’s voice. He frowns almost instinctively. Bedelia’s voice follows, sounding melodious even from such distance. It is too far for him to distinguish words, but he aspires to do so nonetheless, his muscles tensed in unspecified anticipation.

All the sudden, the man’s voice becomes louder as if raised in anger; Hannibal’s head tilts aside as he listens more intensely, eyes alerted. Whatever Bedelia’s response is, her tone remains unchanged. The same cannot be said about the mysterious guest. His voice turns increasingly louder; the next words are clearly audible even from such distance.

“You owe me at least that fucking much!”

Hannibal stands up at once and moves towards the door; he knows Bedelia might not approve of him intruding on her private conversation but ensuring she is all right is more important. And the man’s tone makes is clear it is not a conversation she should be subjected to anyway.

He walks down the hallway and stops when two figures come into view, Bedelia’s small figure with her back turned to him and the owner of the loud voice, a tall, dark-haired man in his early thirties, standing in front of her. Hannibal scrutinises him carefully; handsome if rather too obviously so, indicating an expected lack of any other engaging qualities, his suit is expensive but still not tailored properly. What a waste of excellent fabric.

_A former patient?_

It seems rather unlikely; Hannibal purposely ignores the obvious conclusion.

_A former lover._

A rush of blood makes his cheeks burn unpleasantly. He gives the mundane looking man another throughout stare, this time coloured with distaste; he had not considered such prosaic attributes to be Bedelia’s type. Now the man’s perfectly framed features are painted red, the anger of his tone reflected on his face and twisting it into a hostile mask.

“Who do you think you are?!” the man shouts again, and Hannibal’s eyes turn sharp as he takes a few steps closer.

“Is everything all right?” he asks loud enough for them both to hear.

The man startles, not hearing Hannibal’s silent steps and not expecting anyone else to be here. But the new presence does not stifle his temper, quite the contrary.

“Oh, I see you have already found another sucker,” he glares at Bedelia while pointing at Hannibal.

Hannibal takes another slow step forward, making the man lower his hand.

“Are you all right, Doctor Du Maurier?” he ignores the man, addressing Bedelia directly, her back still turned and her reaction unknown to him.

“Yes, thank you, Hannibal,” she does not turn her head, but her voice retains its composure.

“ _Doctor Du Maurier_?” the man repeats the words with derision, “Just a patient then, better that way for you, trust me pal,” he now looks at Hannibal with an attempt of men’s camaraderie.

Hannibal does not respond, his gaze shifting to rest on Bedelia’s back.

“You said what you wanted to say. I believe it is time for you to leave,” she addresses the man in the same collected tone.

“Well, you left no choice when you didn’t return my phone calls,” his anger does not falter, “Clearly you had more important things to do, _Doctor_.”

The man’s gaze shifts from one person to another, irked by both Bedelia’s unmoved manner and Hannibal’s firm presence.

“I guess I am the bad guy now,” he raises his hands in exaggerated defensiveness, “I wanted to do _you_ a favour by giving you another shot,” he leans forward, his face closer Bedelia’s.

_Too close_ , Hannibal notes with anger. His hunter’s instinct employed at once, he swiftly assesses the opponent’s stamina. The man might be younger than him, but he would stand no chance against Hannibal’s strength. One twist of a neck is all it would take. Hannibal can almost feel the satisfying crunch of bones beneath his fingers.

“It is not like you have guys lining up for you. No wonder, you are always so self-serving.”

Bedelia remains unperturbed as the man continues to do everything in his feeble power to elicit a reaction from her.

“And you were hardly a good fuck anyway. Such a frigid bitch,” the man spits out the words like poison from his tongue, the acidic tone making Bedelia flinch if only for a brief second.

Hannibal’s stare is flooded with a wave of red, a target of the man clearly focused in its crimson centre. He closes his hands and refrains himself from instantly killing the man. The repulsive creature does not deserve to draw another breath. It is only because of Bedelia that he keeps his instincts at bay.

But he will not allow for the offence to go unaddressed.

“Doctor Du Maurier asked you to leave,” he now stands right behind Bedelia, his knuckles turning white as he continues to squeeze his fingers into fists.

The man chuckles, ready to deliver another riposte, but one look at Hannibal makes him swallow his words, his eyes visibly fearful.

“Fine, whatever,” he waves his hands in attempt to retain his nonchalance, “I don’t know why I bothered anyway.”

He turns to reach for the door but stops and risks another spiteful comment.

“Good luck finding someone who will put up with your bullshit,” he gives Hannibal a wary side glance, “Or maybe you already did.”

He does wait for their response, finally opening the door and leaving, letting it shut behind him with a loud thud.

The sound echoes in the now silent hallway with Hannibal still standing protectively behind Bedelia, eyes on the door, just in case the man decides to return.

Luckily for the man, he does not.

Instantaneous silence is so complete, it rings louder than the previous clamour. After a moment, Bedelia turns and Hannibal is finally able to see her face. He expects to notice at least a smidgen of distress on her perfect visage, but there is none. She is as composed as ever. He gazes into her eyes, trying to discern any tremble within the sharp blue.

“I sincerely apologise for this impertinent interruption,” she speaks calmly in all her professional bearing, “Our time is up but we can return to our session or reschedule if you prefer to start anew.”

“That will not be necessary,” he responds in same courteous tone while wanting nothing more than make sure she is all right.

Bedelia inclines her head in agreement, a fleeting spark passing through the glace of her eyes. Was it a glimpse of relief he noticed in her otherwise unwavering gaze? He cannot tell.

“Red or white?” she asks as always, as if nothing out of ordinary has transpired.

Hannibal’s lips press as he withholds from making a direct enquiry, concern burning heavily in his chest.

“White would be agreeable,” he says instead, swallowing his worries. At least for the moment.

Bedelia nods once more in wordless concurrence and proceeds to make her way towards the kitchen. Hannibal remains rooted to his spot unsure what he should do next, the strange irresolution being a sensation he is utterly unfamiliar with. Inhaling in slow determination, he sets to follow her, but purposely lingers back, allowing her time to gather herself if needed.

When he reaches the kitchen, he stops at the threshold as if waiting for an invitation to proceed further. Unlike the professional setting of her office, this is a private space of her home and he knows she has undoubtedly reinforced its invisible boarders.

He watches as she opens a cabinet, retrieving two glasses. He wonders if he should announce his arrival, but he is certain she is aware of his presence. She always is and Hannibal, who seeks to be undetectable for most of the time, finds the notion unexpectedly thrilling.

“I am sorry you had to witness that,” her back turned to him, she speaks so quietly, he barely registers the words.

“It is quite all right,” Hannibal takes a tentative step forward, taking the spoken words as her allowance, “You should not have witnessed it either.”

His reassurance is meant with silence, the sound of closing cabinets being the only reply. Again, Hannibal is unsure if he has spoken out of turn. Bedelia takes out a bottle of wine from the rack; even from a distance, Hannibal can spot the excellence of the vintage. He smiles in quiet appreciation of her faultless taste.

“Patrick did not take the breakup well as you may have gathered,” she speaks all the sudden, an unforeseen glance into her private life, still preoccupied with the wine.

A flash of red passes through his vision and Hannibal’s mind becomes alert at once, yet he holds back his anger with the man in favour of gathering more practical information.

“He looked somehow familiar. Perhaps I have met him before,” he asks ever so casually, “What is his surname?”

Setting the bottle down, Bedelia turns to face him, head tilted, her bright eyes burning through his scanty excuse with ease. But to his surprise, she responds, nonetheless.

“Murray,” her eyes narrow as she surveys his reaction, “It is unlikely you did. He is a journalist; he travels most of the time.”

Hannibal attempts to keep his face unmoved; the information is more that he has bargained for. It will definitely make his task easier. Having addressed the necessary technicalities, he can now focus on what is important. Her.

Bedelia turns away once again, reaching for the bottle opener and setting to uncork the wine. Hannibal is eager to offer his help, but the invisible boundary she strives to set stops him anew. Instead he settles for the pleasure of watching her.

She is so elegant in her movements, retaining her delicateness even in a task that requires a touch of strength. He cannot help but smiles as she effortlessly removes the cork, letting the wine breathe. Once again, he is puzzled by why she would choose a man like Patrick.

_He travels a lot._

He recalls her words and wonders if that is why she decided to engage with him. A perfect excuse for only seeing him when she wanted him to tend to her needs. The notion makes Hannibal’s pulse quicken with exasperation. But he knows the man did not do well in that facet. His face burns anew, the red in his eyes advancing beneath his skin. He tries to purge the unpleasant images from his mind and focus on the planned course of action for dealing with the man, as swiftly as possible.

His gaze rests on Bedelia anew and his wrath with the inferior man blazes with fresh vigour. The thought of his unskilled hands of her body is unbearable. He wishes he could erase the echoes of the man’s touch on her skin and replace it with his. He wishes he could gather her in his arms in this very moment and show her what a real man feels like.

“Thank you for helping,” Bedelia speaks again, breaking the storm of thoughts raging through Hannibal’s mind. He finds himself alerted at once; the words are favourable, but her tone is somehow reproachable.

Hannibal opens his mouth, wanting to ensure her it was nothing, but it seems she has not yet finished.

“But you did not have to do it,” she concludes. Her shoulders are tense as she shifts in her spot, reaching for the glasses on the counter.

His mouth closes and he says nothing. Now he understands her reluctance in continuing their conversation; her pride has been bruised. The last thing she wants is for a man to save her from another man.

But that is not why he intervened.

He has never thought she needs saving. He tries to arrange his feelings into proper words, ones that would not alienate her further when a sudden cracking sound and a gasp on Bedelia’s part pierce through his thoughts. His gaze instantly follows the source of the noise and sees Bedelia holding her hand, shards of a half-broken glass scattered on the counter.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” regardless of her previous objections, he steps in closer, hand already reaching out to offer assistance.

“I am fine,” Bedelia’s firm words and a lift of her other hand halt his keenness.

He stops on a spot while her head turns to ensure he stays there. Her gaze briefly meets his and he can clearly see a quiver beneath the fiery gas flames. The encounter did not leave her wholly unaffected after all, yet she strives to keep her unsettle at bay. It must be so much harder with his presence here, he reasons seeing the broken glass, a physical manifestation of her upset.

Hannibal has never admired her perseverance more.

Allowing her the space she needs, he stands aside, watching as she hastily washes the cut under a running tap and then swiftly wraps the hand in a tea towel. Hannibal’s mouth twitches, his need to ensure she is all right still burns bright.

Bedelia sweeps the broken pieces away and reaches out to get a new glass, all ready to carry on with the unfinished task as if nothing has happened. The resoluteness of each gesture tells Hannibal she has had enough unpleasant interruptions for one afternoon. She frowns as her injured hand wraps around the bottle but swallows any whimper of pain and proceeds to pour the liquid into the glasses.

“Shall we go back to the office?” she offers him a glass, the unyielding determination of her stare silently daring him to offer any further assistance.

He does not. He takes the glass and obediently follows her out of the kitchen.

Entering the room, she goes to stand by the window, her usual spot for their after sessions’ moments, now being a familiar oasis, she can retreat to. The sun is slowly setting, the final rays stretching across the floor in the last desperate grasp of a passing day, no longer able to envelop Bedelia’s face in the luminous halo. He walks to join her, watching her figure half covered in shadow, just like her emotions. Standing next to her, he hopes to be allowed a glimpse of her light. They drink their wine in silence.

The dusk starts to bruise like a ripe plum, a fitting accompaniment to Bedelia’s maltreated heart. She gazes out the window and Hannibal thinks of all possible subjects to approach, yet nothing appears relevant enough. He glances at Bedelia and notices a slight shake of her hands; she recovers almost instantaneously, hands wrapping firmly around the ball of her glass in search of steadiness.

“Can we sit down?” he asks cautiously, all prepared to be set aflame under the fire of her scrutiny, but to his surprise, she nods in agreement.

They move to the sofa, both choosing their spot with apparent hesitancy, the shared space devoid of safety of the separate therapy chairs. Finally, they both perch on their seats, continuing to savour their drinks. The air is quiet, filled with a restful relief, the preceding tension has long evaporated. Hannibal puts his empty glass on a table and turns to face Bedelia.

“May I?” he asks in a low voice, hand extending ever so slightly.

Placing her own glass on the table, Bedelia reaches her injured hand out and allows Hannibal to take it in his.

Slowly unwrapping the towel, Hannibal’s keen eyes set to examine the cut. Blotches of drying blood cover the white fabric with adjoining smears colouring her palm. Luckily, the wound is no longer bleeding.

He watches the red splashes on her skin with inexplicable aversion. It is not like him to shy away from the vision of crimson, quite the opposite, he finds nothing but beauty in its fathomless hue and how it darkens in the face of death. Yet this sight arouses nothing but fury in his mind. He does not want to see a single drop of Bedelia’s blood spilled, not one blemish on her body. Or heart. Especially ones inflicted by such an inferior creature; he reflects on all the happenings that led to this injury. His own heart gives a thud of quiet resolve as he wills to protect her from all harm.

His finger touches the cut with utmost delicacy. Despite the surrounding streaks of blood, it is barely a scratch on her pristine skin.

“It will not leave a mark,” he speaks softly, closing her hand in his. And he does not just mean the cut. “But it should be cleaned, just in case.”

He looks at her with a timid smile, hoping he has not overstepped her permission. But her eyes retain its calm and she does not withdraw her hand

“Thank you,” she says, “I mean, thank you for everything,” she averts her gaze in the rare moment of vulnerability.

“Accepting help is not that simple,” Hannibal assures, “I know it better than anyone.”

His own admittance of fragility is met with a reassuring smile from Bedelia.

“I guess I do not know how to offer myself to others either,” she notes with a tang of bitterness in her words.

Hannibal’s mouth twists in brief disdain as he recalls the man’s venomous comments that bared no truth.

“It is quite the contrary, Bedelia,” his eyes fall on hers, currently reflecting a different kind of flame, one that kindles in his heart.

“I am too much then?” she challenges his words, but her gaze is softer than before, her previous defiance vanished.

Hannibal’s lips turn up gently, his thumb slowly brushing over her knuckles, a purposeful caress. He sees as her face lights up with a flicker of pleasure. He delights in the feel of her hand in his and how perfectly it fits in his hold; he considers the fleeting moments he gets to spend in her company and how it always leaves him wanting more.

“Never enough,” he proclaims with all solemnity.

He watches her smile bloom with a flourish, her cheeks still radiating with a soft glow, the heaviness lifting from her heart.

Hannibal returns the smile, his hand still enveloping hers; he cannot wait to turn that spark into endless fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you reading! Please consider leaving a comment and let me know what you think about it. :)


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